File this one under: Why people of a certain age need to seriously consider whether it’s worth using “the Facebook.”

Charles Mainor, a New Jersey assemblyman, got into some embarrassing trouble last week when local media noticed his . . . er, untoward . . . proclivities on his Facebook page. Specifically, he “liked” the pages “You Got Knocked the Fck Out Man,” and “Big Booty Freaks.” The former features videos of people getting violently beaten to a pulp, and the latter features—um, well. Prudish decency and affiliation with a major television network prohibits me from elaborating further. Mainor initially denied knowledge of either page, but later admitted that he’d liked “You Got Knocked the Fck Out Man” because his daughter wanted him to see it, and he was under the impression a like was tantamount to dog-earing the page. He claims to have no idea how “Big Booty Freaks” got on there, but has not gone so far as to state that he is adamantly not a big booty freak. So I suppose the jury is still out. But I sort of believe him. One of my former childhood teachers befriended me on Facebook some time ago, which is how I discovered his penchant for reading articles on Yahoo! News about global economics, foreign policy developments, and Kim Kardashian’s thong bikini. Remember, folks: sharing isn’t always caring anymore.

(credit: Handout via WRGB-TV)

An upstate woman taught us a valuable lesson in the nuances of propriety and the subtleties of the parent-child relationship when she was arrested for hiring a stripper to entertain at her son’s 16th birthday bowling party. Honestly, it’s a mistake any one of us could have made. There but for the grace of God and all that, right? She was just trying to think like her kid and give him something he’d really want. Too many years had been spent watching him cast aside new editions of Trivial Pursuit and imported Italian wool sweaters. Sixteen is a big deal! It requires a big deal bash. I don’t know when you were last at a bowling alley, but those places are, like, snoozeville. They’re dingy, there’s bad lighting, and they are conspicuously devoid of sex and anything even remotely sexy. And what do 16-year-old boys want more than anything? Bingo. The only right way to teach a boy to become a man is to buy him and his friends lap dances in between frames. And pizza. A bowling party without pizza is like a skating party without prostitutes.

The good, enterprising folks of my own Westchester County have taught us a lesson in resilience. Plagued with “nuisance geese” who have the audacity to hang out on fields near lakes and defecate everywhere, county parks have been trying to come up with humane means of dispatching the birds. Apparently last year’s tactic of killing them and turning them into burgers for homeless people didn’t sit well with many animal lovers. So now they’ve employed a new concept: an all-terrain, radio-controlled “robot” called the Goosinator, which basically flies around scaring the crap out of the geese. Wait, no. Opposite. Scaring them off to crap elsewhere. I would venture to say this is a losing battle, and perhaps one that ought not be fought. Goose droppings are just a fact of life in Westchester, like tiny women careening around in luxury SUVs. Sometimes the goose poops on you, and sometimes you poop on the goose. The sooner we remember that, the sooner we can focus on getting more frozen yogurt places into our shopping centers.

Also, this baby sloth gave a lady a flower petal and half the country melted into gooey puddles and world peace was declared and rainbows could be seen in every town in every state across the nation. Pretty much. Lesson: obvious.